Promises
by JavaForever
Summary: "He had promised her that she could go first and her husband was a man of his word. It was the only promise he ever made her that he didn't keep." Set post-series, canon with A Year in the Life. Emily-centric angst with a hopeful ending. One-shot.


A/N: I feel like I've just walked back in time to 2007, when I first discovered Gilmore Girls. It would seem that we've come full-circle. I loved the new episodes, but I was most intrigued by Emily's character development. It was the one aspect I felt I had to write about, so here we are.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gilmore Girls, nor do I own A Year in the Life, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't have any student loans to pay off right now.

At first, she didn't really believe it. When she called 911, when she drove to the ICU, when she called Lorelai, in the back of her mind, she knew this wasn't the end. It couldn't be. He had promised her, so it couldn't be. She was still here, so it couldn't be. When he managed to hang on, even when the doctors didn't think he would, she knew it even more. He wasn't ready to go yet – it wasn't over. When he drew his last breath, when the flat-line sounded, she didn't cry. She just waited for him to open his eyes and squeeze her hand and tell her that he was sorry. That he was sorry to have scared her, but of course he wasn't going yet. It wasn't time.

When she went home for the first time after the hospital, she didn't move any of his things. She left them exactly as they were, expecting that, at any minute, he would come through the door in a huff over some business deal, asking when dinner would be ready and if they were having that god-awful fish again. She left his clothes hanging in the closet, his pajamas neatly folded on the chair, his side of the bed turned down, waiting for him to slide in between the sheets and extend an arm to her. She told herself that he was away on business and waited for the phone to ring at eight o'clock so that he could wish her goodnight.

After the phone never rang and he never came through the door, she was angry. Furious, even. After all they'd been through, after fifty years of marriage, how dare he abandon her like this? How dare he leave her here alone when he had sworn to take care of her, to love and to cherish her, as long as they both should live. She was still living – where was he? He had promised her that she could go first and her husband was a man of his word. It was the only promise he ever made her that he didn't keep.

One night, after the maid had gone to bed, she went into the closet and pulled out all of his suits. This collection of fancy, designer suits she had carefully cultivated for him throughout the years was just hanging there, mocking her. She ripped them all off their hangers and threw them on the floor. She flung his expensive Italian leather shoes onto the pile. She yanked all his beautiful silk ties off the tie rack and added them too. She tore the sheets off the bed, unplugged the phone, sat down in the middle of it all, and cursed him out as loudly as she could without waking anyone. She hated him for everything – for leaving her, for breaking his promise, for never preparing her for what life would be like without him, for making her love him in the first place. She cursed his name while her tears stained the leather and silk, until she fell asleep cocooned in his suits and the smell of his cologne.

In the days and weeks and months after the funeral, she didn't think much. She tried to continue living life as she did before. She thought that maybe, if she kept on as she had when Richard was there, things would go back to normal. She attended the DAR meetings, she ran errands and ordered the maids and cooks and groundskeepers around. She ate dinner in the dining room and always set a place for him. She told him about her day and gossiped about the neighbors and their friends. Sometimes she thought that this was all just a particularly bad nightmare and soon she would wake up with his arms around her, just as she always had.

Eventually, she came to realize that he wasn't coming back. She had known it, of course. She wasn't delusional; she had been there when they'd buried him. But she'd held on to hope that maybe, maybe if she did or said the right thing, he would come back. It was impossible, obviously. She was a reasonable, sensible woman and she understood the concept of death. Still, maybe if she tried to repair things with Lorelai, or if she bettered herself, or gave back to the community, or did something, anything, right, he would come back through the door to tell her how much he had missed her. Richard Gilmore brought light to the world – to her world. He made a difference, he did good things. She was just a wife. She should have been the one to go first.

As her first year as a widow drew to a close, she found herself not caring as much. She stopped trying. She knew that nothing she did would bring him back, so why bother? Why bother being the perfect wife and the perfect society woman anymore? She found herself sleeping more and eating less. The last time she could remember feeling this profoundly sad was when Lorelai had left with Rory. Berta brought her meals to her in bed most days. Sometimes her children would slip little hand-made "get well" cards onto the tray. Their bright yellow suns over neon-green grass was an optimistic view of the world that she wished she could see for herself. But everything seemed tinged with grey these days.

The greyness blanketed her existence until she felt she was nothing more than a shell. Until, one day, she wasn't quite so empty anymore. It started with her telling off the DAR, who promptly ousted her from the group. She visited the house in Nantucket that she and Richard had rented for vacations. And she slowly began to enjoy things again. She reveled in the freedom cutting ties with her former social obligations gave her. She liked the smell of the ocean that hovered in the Nantucket air. Her feet thanked her for giving them a break from high heels. She listened to Berta's children play outside and the sounds of their laughter made her smile.

She sold the house. It wasn't as hard of a decision as she expected it to be. She loved that home, but it was dark now. The house died with Richard. She was realizing that she was a person outside of her husband. She had loved, with all her heart, being a wife. She was good – great even – at it. But now she was done. She would never be someone's wife again. That part of her life had ended and it was time to start anew. She didn't know yet what she was going to be, but she knew it wouldn't start in their old house. So she moved to Nantucket instead and kept the few things that mattered. She took Berta and her entire family with her, some precious possessions, a renewed relationship with her daughter, and she finally got rid of that ostentatious portrait of her late husband. It was far too large and he would've hated it.

She cried when she left Hartford and mourned the life she had lost, but she still moved into the new house and didn't look back. She took a new, smaller portrait of Richard with her and hung it in the living room. Every night, after the others had gone to bed, she poured herself a drink and relaxed in her comfortable chair facing his picture, breathing in the salt air and letting her body grow heavy. When she finished, she'd raise her glass, wish him a goodnight. Every night, as she wearily climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she could swear she heard him answer her, "Goodnight, my dear. I'll see you tomorrow."


End file.
